


Golden

by Bluethenstaub



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Nudity, Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 12:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13880721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluethenstaub/pseuds/Bluethenstaub
Summary: With his adversary out of the picture, Aziraphale’s life was so much easier. He actually had time for himself. Not that he never took time for himself anyway, life was, after all, so much easier when you had an arrangement with your enemy.Actually, he had so much time for himself now, he grew quite bored. He started to pick up little hobbies.It took Crowley years to find out everything that happened to Aziraphale in the 19th century.





	Golden

Once in a while, Good and Evil met up.

To commit Lust, the demon said.

To show Love and Compassion to your enemy, the angel said.

They both knew the truth.

 

They hadn't really met up like this since the death of Robespierre. They had their reasons. The demon sleeping for a century was the main reason, even though the angel knew they would probably have met some time after 1865.

With his adversary out of the picture, Aziraphale’s life was so much easier. He actually had time for himself. Not that he never took time for himself anyway, life was, after all, so much easier when you had an arrangement with your enemy.

Actually, he had so much time for himself now, he grew quite bored. He started to pick up little hobbies. In addition to his books, his biggest and most beloved passion, of course. He was the first angel who learned to dance, even though it took him ages. He learned to do magic - human magic, not real magic. Card tricks, vanishing coins and unravelingcomplicated knots.[1] He had his portrait taken. He still had it framed in his bookshop. Somewhere. Hidden amongst dust and books. It had to be somewhere, he was certain that he hadn’t thrown it way. He never threw anything away. He learned how to play cricket, and started to collect snuff boxes. Aziraphale had learned how to ride a velocipede. It had taken him a really long time to pick this up, but after a while, he got the hang of it. When Crowley had woken up, he hadn’t been a fan of it. He had laughed at Aziraphale and found himself more enchanted by the automobiles. Aziraphale didn’t hate automobiles - he just hated the way Crowley drove them.

In the 1890s Aziraphale even found himself, on a whim, in a little, dusty shop in France, where… well, he didn't talk about it very often, but it had still happened.

Crowley didn't even know about it yet. Their last encounter, where he might have been able to see _them_ , hadn't lasted long. It was in the heat of passion, they both were so happy that Crowley had just woken up that Aziraphale didn't even have time to undress completely.

Aziraphale also had no time to mention it. He didn’t know how to mention it later, it wasn’t something you just told your adversary, even if you had the kind of relationship Aziraphale and Crowley had.

 

The last years had been rough. There had been the Great War, a thing they hoped that would never be repeated. Aziraphale had many opportunities during these years to do good. Crowley had been a mess. He had mumbled something about “free will” every time he took a long sip of his drink. He had mumbled it too often for Aziraphale to count, even though they weren’t even together the whole time. Aziraphale had been to No Man's Land for a while, Crowley had stayed behind in London, drowning in his misery.

The twenties had been lived in vain. Like so many young people, Crowley had not thought about yesterday, he had danced all night long in fancy suits and dresses, and spent most of his mornings asleep in Aziraphale’s bookshop on the couch, sometimes still with a drink in his hand. He connected with the artists of the city like he had done all through the ages. One day he even slept on his couch wearing only a bathing suit and a silk kimono! At least he had been dry. Aziraphale hadn't been able to concentrate all day. He had even burned the cocoa he had been making for himself.

Aziraphale stayed in his bookshop and smiled at Crowley’s shenanigans. There was no harm in Crowley’s doing.[2] There was a little harm after Crowley got his Bentley,[3] but on the larger scale, that could be ignored. No people killed, no bigger destruction happened, Aziraphale was always able to prevent the worst.

The thirties were less influenced by parties and more by the Great Depression. It was during these days that Crowley started his little habit of gluing coins to the pavement. Life in London during these years wasn’t too bad compared to elsewhere. Unfortunately for Aziraphale, he got an assignment to go to America and do his good there. Crowley was sent to Germany. They didn’t even need him there, he later told Aziraphale. They did all the bad things without his help. Maybe if Aziraphale had gone to Germany earlier, he had suggested, and if Aziraphale had influenced the right people with his holiness, the Second World War would never have happened.

After the war, they both went back to London. Crowley had started to drink more again. He blamed himself, Aziraphale knew. Crowley blamed himself for giving the humans free will. But, as he had told him many times, there had been no way of knowing what the humans would decide to do with it - that was the point of it, after all. If they decided to kill each other, that was their business. Divine and diabolical entities could take influence, but at the end of the day, it was the human who decided what they really did, or not.

It was only after big wars like these that Crowley spent his depressed days with Aziraphale. Normally, he preferred to spend his misery alone and in isolation. Aziraphale had tried to ask what he did during these days alone only once. Crowley’s glare had been so angry even through his sunglasses that Aziraphale hadn’t tried to ask further questions, even though the angel was sure he’d get the information out of him if he really wanted.

 

This day in 1946, Crowley was sober for once when he came into Aziraphale’s bookshop.

“We're closed,” he bellowed at the only customer in the shop.

“But-"

“No but.” Crowley snapped his fingers. Suddenly the customer felt the urge to ruin himself by buying the biggest bouquet of flowers for his wife, bigger and more colourful than anything he had ever bought.[4] Crowley turned the sign on the door around. Now it showed that they were actually closed. He didn't want anyone to come in right now.

“My dear boy, Crowley.” Aziraphale hurried out of the backroom. “You can't come in here and scare away my customers.”

“Drop the facade, we both know I was doing you a favour.”

Aziraphale sniffed at Crowley. “You're sober. What's the matter?”

“Nothing's the matter. I just can't stay drunk for a whole century. I have demonic duties to fulfill.”

“In my bookshop?”

“Especially in the bookshop,” Crowley answered and went into the backroom.

Aziraphale followed him. “Are you going to try and tempt an angel?”

“I most certainly am.”

“I'm not sure if I'm in the right mood for this.” He wasn't just any common human, after all. For a second, Aziraphale thought about all the humans Crowley had been able to bring to his side with only a thrust of his hips. He had never asked Crowley if he sometimes did the tempting this way or not.

“Angel, you're in the mood for this, believe me.” Carefully he placed a package on the table like a mother placed her half-sleeping child in the bed after a long day. Except mothers didn't place their children on tables next to rare books.

“What is this?”

“This is sin itself.” He opened the package. Inside was the most delicious looking chocolate cake.

Aziraphale’s mouth started to water. “Indeed, it does look quite good. Where did you find this in these times?” He took plates, a knife, and forks from his small kitchenette.

Crowley shrugged. “You just need to talk to the right people and you can get anything. You just have to talk to people, for once.”

“I was just talking to the customer you sent away.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And earlier to the lovely lad who sells the newspaper.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the woman from the bakery and- Oh, stop it, you old snake! You’re starting to sound like Gabriel!”

“This was not my intention at all.” Crowley sat down in his claimed spot on the old couch.

Aziraphale huffed and cut two pieces of cake. He gave Crowley the slightly smaller one.

“Unlike that prick, I think you're perfectly fine for an angel. Just imagine if you were like he wants you to be. That would be awfully boring. You'd have to smite me with your flaming sword instead of with certain parts of your body.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. This was enough to stop the demon from talking. Aziraphale tasted the cake. It tasted even better than it looked. It had layers of cream and a surprise molten chocolate ring inside. The molten chocolate was the perfect temperature to melt once again in Aziraphale’s mouth.

He took a second piece right after finishing the first, this one even bigger. Crowley hadn't even eaten half of his first piece.

“You like it, I assume.”

“It's quite good, my dear.”

For a second Crowley’s face beamed with joy. If Aziraphale hadn’t known him for as long as he did, he would probably have missed it. Crowley really liked when Aziraphale praised him. “Of course, it is. Did you expect less?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. Some things didn’t need vocalizing.

Together they ate most of the cake and enjoyed the silence. When you’re over 5,000 years old and an occult or ethereal being, you didn’t have to talk to your adversary all the time. Sometimes you could just enjoy his presence.

Crowley stood up and came to Aziraphale’s armchair. “You know…”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Crowley leaned down and kissed Aziraphale with all the emotions of the last fifty years. “Because your old bathtub is bigger than mine. And it has these funny little claw-feet. I should get a bigger apartment and tub. It's time.”

“Oh.” This was not was Aziraphale had expected.

“Join me?”

“I don't know,” he answered slowly. “I'm reading a good book.”

“You can read in the tub. I'll see you upstairs.” With long steps Crowley was at the stairs, gone before Aziraphale could answer.

The angel blinked slowly. “It's too old, I shouldn't read it in the tub,” he told the demon who wasn't in the room anymore.

He really had expected sex on the couch, but Crowley had just bribed him to get to his bathroom. He sighed deeply. Okay, he would join Crowley. It wasn't every day that Crowley suggested such a thing as a bath together.

Aziraphale had gotten a new bathroom in 1888. It was a dream of marble and porcelain, it even had plumping! Not that he'd have used the plumping, it was the same as with his kettle. These things just happened, they didn't even need a miracle.

Crowley complained once that it was way too decadent, and because of such decadence, Rome had fallen, and so would Aziraphale. _That flash bastard,_ Aziraphale had thought and smiled. If there was anyone who was going to die because of his decadence it was Crowley complaining about a tub while sitting in said tub. Of course, he hadn't said this out loud.

Crowley had only complained once about the bathroom. Shortly after, Aziraphale suggested that it was a good time for him to go home. Five minutes in his “cesspool of inquiry” were more than enough for Crowley. Aziraphale didn't care how hurt Crowley looked after this, he had not been in the mood for criticism at this moment, thank you very much.

Aziraphale finished his piece of cake[5] before he put the leftovers into the fridge. He didn't want them to spoil. For a moment, he thought about ignoring Crowley in the tub upstairs, but decided against it. He followed him.

Aziraphale went directly to his dressing room. Who was he not to have a separate room for this? Maybe Crowley had his dresser directly next to his bed and lived like this, but not Aziraphale, oh no. He had class and style.

With a long, white towel wrapped around him, not showing an inch of his skin more than necessary, he went into the bathroom. It was dark in there, the only illumination was candlelight. Aziraphale didn’t know where the candles came from, they certainly were not his. But they made the mood more romantic. Even Aziraphale appreciated romance sometimes.

His eyes wandered over to Crowley in the tub.

“You lie there like a prostitute.”

Crowley was using up all the space in the tub, one leg in the water, one leg dangling lazily over the edge. Aziraphale noticed that he had painted his toenails gold. It was almost the same colour as his eyes.

“How do you know what a whore looks like? Did you ever visit one? In one of these long nights, when I wasn’t around and didn’t give you the warmth you need? Did she wrap her long legs around you and moan your name? Did she tell you how good you are, how good it feels to have you inside? Did she tell you that you’re the best man she ever had? Did she go down on you and did she do all the things with her tongue that you love? Did she even make you break a sweat? She was soft, wasn’t she? Softer than I am, I bet. I’m always too bony for you. I bet you liked her breasts. Or did you not see them? Maybe it was hushed, quick sex, done really quickly, you didn’t even have time to take off your vest, she didn’t have time to undo her corsets. I hope you paid her good. They always need money.”

Aziraphale refused to answer. “Sit normal, and I’ll join you,” he said instead. He stood above, answering Crowley’s unjust tirade of jealousy.

Crowley put his leg into the tub and sat up normally. “Happy?”

Aziraphale tested the temperature of the water with his fingers. “It's burning hot.”

“It's warm.”

“It's too hot.” The water temperature dropped. “This is better. And don't you dare try the lobster method and heat it up over time.”

“I'd never!”

“You would, my dear.” Aziraphale put the towel on the sink.

Crowley quickly scanned his body. His eyes widened. “What are those? When did you get them?”

“I don't know what you mean,” Aziraphale answered and got into the tub, sitting down opposite Crowley. His knees bumped into Crowley’s who automatically spread his legs to make room for them.

“Angel, I think we both know exactly what I mean. When did you get your nipples pierced?”

Aziraphale blushed. “Don't you think we should have gotten some wine? It helps with the mood.” He stood up again.

Crowley grabbed his hands. “Stay, please. We don't have to talk about them.”

Aziraphale sat down again. It was so rare that Crowley said please.

In the semi-darkness, Aziraphale could see Crowley’s face grow several shades darker. It was quite cute.

“... Can I touch them?” he asked hesitantly.

“Oh.” Aziraphale really hadn’t expected this reaction from Crowley. He had expected him to make fun of them, to mock Aziraphale for his uncharacteristic impulsivity. The last time Crowley had looked this uncomfortable for asking a question had been when he had asked the angel for corporal activities with wings out at the end of the 16th century. “You might touch them.”

Carefully, as if he feared that Aziraphale would take back his word, Crowley let go of his hands and touched the golden rings. Aziraphale shuddered.

“Did it hurt?” he asked softly.

“When I got them, yes. The whole day and the night. And sometimes when I pressed a book too hard against my chest in the weeks after. But it doesn’t hurt anymore. Actually, I have to admit, I forget that I have them most of the time.”

Crowley’s thumbs caressed his nipples carefully. “I think I like them. Why didn't you tell me about them before?”

“It's nothing you tell someone in passing. And the last time, after your long nap, when you had the chance to see them, we didn’t undress completely.”

“You already had them last time we had sex? When did you get them?”

“1890s. Paris.”

“What a surprise.”

“Stop talking, my dear.”

Crowley leaned back, quietly. Slowly he licked his lips. Aziraphale knew what would follow when they had finished their bath. They would go into the bedroom, and Crowley would show him how much he liked the piercings.

Later, when they had long left the bathroom, Crowley asked a question that had bothered him since he first saw the nipple rings. “Did you ever think about getting another piercing down there?”

“I don't suppose that humans are able to pierce you there.”

“You're not a human.”

“Do you want me to explain _that_ to Gabriel?”

“Want me to do it for you?”

“Not now. I'll think about it.”

That was all Crowley needed to hear.

 

 

* * *

 

 

1An ability he found most useful later during one of his and Crowley’s little… misadventures. Crowley told him that they could always have miracled the knots open, but it gave you a little rush of passion when you're able to do some things with your own hands. And he didn't have to explain to Gabriel why he had miracled _this_ when he should have been out there, doing good. [return to text]

2He didn’t know that Crowley had started to influence the radio and the pictures these days.[return to text]

3Especially to Aziraphale. He was sure he almost died four times because of Crowley’s driving style in 1926 alone![return to text]

4Without knowing it, Crowley saved the marriage of Frank and Ruth Baker whose granddaughter Deirdre Young, née Baker, would be the mother of the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.[return to text]

5And Crowley’s.[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> Aka. I remembered that there was a fashion trend about nipple piercings in the 1890s for women, but actually who cares if it was only for women?
> 
>  
> 
> [fanart by holoxam](https://flashbastardwithsunglasses.tumblr.com/post/171876830116/holoxam-in-flashbastardwithsunglasses-fic)


End file.
